


La Rose et la Fleur de Lys

by AmateurDreamMaker



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Historical, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurDreamMaker/pseuds/AmateurDreamMaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing both their carriage and money, François and his companions take shelter in an enchanted mansion. A mansion that might be owned by cursed man.<br/>The Beauty and the Beast AU, set in 1736.<br/>(Permanent hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: (January 30th, 2018) Hi! Sorry to those who stumbled upon this unfinished piece. I'm probably never going to finish it (more information in the last "chapter"), but you're welcome to still read it and if you'd like to come talk to me about it, just comment here. :)
> 
> (May 13th, 2016) For a long time I’ve been wanting to write a “The Beauty and the Beast” AU for FrUk, so I tried my hand at it for the 2nd day of the FrUk Spring Festival, which unfortunately is the only day I’ll be participating because… As always, I found myself unable to do a one-shot, and this kind of became way bigger than I thought it would, and while the first chapter is meant to be for the Festival, the next two ones will not be.  
> This is the first piece I post online, so I’d love to hear what you think. Constructive criticism over the characterizations and my writing style is most welcome. ;)  
> (Also, my first language is not English, so I’d appreciate any corrections on my grammar and spelling as well.)
> 
> Some other notes: I changed France’s name to “François” for this one, because it sounded more.. French, specially because of the time setting (I’m really sorry, please don’t kill me). Also, Genevieve is Seychelles, and François’ father is just a necessary (nameless) OC, so he represents no nation.  
> ...And, ugh, I admit I didn’t do enough historical research for this, just roll with it.

_Once upon a time, neither here nor elsewhere, there lived a young nobleman who was put in charge of his father’s land too early for his own good. However, he did his best to be fair and just, if not good and kind._

_But the nobleman’s ambition became bigger and bigger as the years passed, until it froze his heart, making it as hard and cold as stone. And though his temper was fiery, it did not warm his cold heart, just pushed those who were once closest to the man farther away, until there was no one left._

_And then, all alone, the once a man became a monster, cursed by the same people he once swore to protect._

 

François’ grandmother was quite fond of tales, especially if it held a lesson.

The story of the cursed man was a favorite of hers, and although the beginning was always the same, the middle and end changed depending on her always wavering mood. Sometimes a beautiful maiden broke the beast’s curse with her undying love—those were the good days, when no moral lesson was needed. Sometimes the beast was stabbed to death for being “ill-mannered”, as Grand-mère said, or remained cursed forevermore—those days, as expected, were not as good.

Grand-mère had passed away a good ten years ago, and it had been longer since they heard that story, but somehow, it had stuck with him. Maybe it was because Grand-mère always started her story with conviction in her voice, as if she truly believe her story was true. Maybe she did.

François, on the other hand, had never felt much inclined to believe in fairy tales. But he was starting to change his mind on such matters as he watched the imposing wrought iron gates opened all by themselves as if by magic.

“Please, let us through, we need shelter for the night!” He’d pleaded a few seconds ago, and apparently, the gates granted his wish.

If he was to be honest, he now wished they didn’t.

Riding beside him, his cousin Genevieve seemed as stunned as he was. By his other side, his father swayed unconscious on his horse.

It had been a rough day for the travelers: they lost their carriage and money to an attack of road bandits—highwaymen—and were lucky to not have lost their lives. The bandits had seemed apprehensive to be around as the night fell and, as François heard the howling of wolves in the distance, he understood why.

He had dislocated his shoulder when their carriage tumbled to its side and he felt the sting of a cut on his forehead. Genevieve had fallen on top of him, so she was not hurt, but his father had not been as lucky: either by nerves or a strike on the head, he’d fainted.

François walked on foot, guiding Genevieve’s and his father’s horses until they’d seen the gates and were given passage through them.

Now, in the dim light, it was hard to see, but it looked like they were in extensive garden. Ahead there was light, and that was where they headed to. The garden gave way to a large courtyard, a badly tended one, with grass sprouting from between darkened stones. From there they could see what was either a huge country house or a small palace.

The old-fashioned architecture made François believe it had been built three-hundred years ago, at least.

Above, in the single lit window of the last floor, a shadow watched them approach, only to retreat right away. François wondered if that was their host.

Beside the house, they found a solid barn, where they put their horses. Genevieve then helped François pull his unconscious father along into the house through the service entrance.

Once again the door opened and closed by itself, but François did his best to ignore it in favour of a roof on top of their heads and a warm place to rest.

Unexpectedly, the fireplace in the kitchen was lit and the table was set with food and wine, all of it smelled divine.

“Hello?” Genevieve called out, but no one answered.

François yelped when someone—something—pulled on his coat, taking it off. He winced in pain, and clutched his left arm. “What…?” he asked in wonder as the coat levitated by itself and disappeared.

He had been also relieved from his father’s weight as the invisible forces levitated the old man until he was laying on air as if it was a litter. An invisible litter that, seconds later, started moving, taking the old man towards the door.

“Wait! Where are you taking him?” François lunged forward, but invisible hands held him back, luckily by his good arm, and guided him towards the table. And then, standing beside the table, both him and Genevieve were made to sit at their respective chairs, and their plates spontaneously filled themselves with food.

“I’m scared,” Genevieve whispered, picking a bread and nibbling on it half-heartedly.

“Don’t worry,” François whispered back. “I don’t think they mean us any ha-aaAH!” His sentence ended in a scream when the invisible hands prodding him suddenly put his dislocated shoulder once again to its place. “Ouch,” he whined as a cloth appeared from thin air was then tied to his neck so as to suspend his arm.

Genevieve let out a giggle. “Yes, indeed they seem to know what they are doing.”

Next they tended to his broken nose, putting it into place—which elicited new screams from François—and the gash in his forehead, cleaning all the blood off his face afterwards. He hadn’t realised how all of those hurt until now, and wanted nothing but to sleep in a warm bed.

François and Genevieve were left alone to eat then, and Genevieve seemed them put at ease.

After they were finished, the invisible hands were there once again to guide through a maze of corridors, and soon they were out of the servants area and into a much more refined wing of the mansion.

They stopped in a particular corridor and two different doors opened. Genevieve only had time to wave him goodnight before she was gently pushed towards her bedroom and François to his.

The bed in the middle of the room was large and seemed soft. François wanted nothing more than to lay down on it.

After the invisible hands helped him change to a nightgown, he laid down and pulled the comforter to his chin, falling asleep.

 

The next morning, François found his father and Genevieve in the dining room, where they were having breakfast.

He half-expected their host to be among them, but the head of the table where the master of the house was expected to sit was empty.

“Good morning,” he greeted the others as he sat. “How do you feel, papa?”

The old man grumbled something under his breath. His head was bandaged and he seemed in a bad mood.

“He’s terrified of the invisible servants.” Genevieve giggled.

“So should you be!” he exclaimed, watching wary as his cup refilled itself. “I do not wish to stay in this cursed house a minute longer than necessary! We are leaving as soon as we have finished breakfast!”

“Of course,” François agreed, trying to appease the old man. “We shall not abuse of our host’s kindness.”

After they were done, François asked the servants to lead them to their horses, and so they did. Once again they were taken through a maze of corridors until they were not at the service entrance through where they’d come in, but in the main entrance hall instead.

The main doors were large and solid, but they opened with ease for them.

Outside, François heard Genevieve gasp and, as he followed her gaze, he felt amazed as well. The garden that the night before had seemed dark and dreadful was now bright green, with adorning fountains and sculptures punctuating the greenery here and there. Beautiful roses, red and white, blossomed everywhere. They looked like someone spent an awful lot amount of time taking care of them.

He lowered his gaze to the horses standing right before the stairs that lead to the portico they stood at. They were already saddled and each carried a bag which, François found upon further inspection, were filled with provisions for their travel and gold.

“Thank you,” he said to the servants. Then he remembered the person lurking in the window the night before, half wondering if their host was, indeed, a phantom. “Can’t you take us to your master so that we can thank him as well?”

No answer came from the servants, no nudge or push or pull, so he guessed the answer was “no”.

He helped his father and Genevieve to mount their horses as much as he could with his injured arm, and then proceeded by foot, guiding the horses, holding their reins.

As they carried on between the flowers, Genevieve sighed: “They are truly beautiful, aren’t they?”

François agreed and, without thinking twice, he plucked a white rose for its bush and placed it on her hair, the whiteness contrasting beautifully with her dark hair and skin.

From further ahead came the sound of a furious animal. A beast jumped over the tall bushes and stood before them.

“A demon!” François' father whispered, terrified.

There was no lie in that. The beast looked half human, half lion. His eyes, far apart from one another, and his nose, feline in its nature, seemed unnatural on his hairless face. His mouth, though human, was stretched wide to accommodate his fangs. From above his human ears, sprout huge horns proper of a wild animal.

He was hideous.

“I give you shelter, food, and warm beds. I made it so that your injuries were treated and your horses taken care of. And yet you insult me, and you steal from me.”

“It is just a rose,” François said, and rage bristled from behind the beast’s eyes. He lunged towards François and held him up by his throat.

“It is a rose I did not give out of free will. You. Stole. It.” And with each word the beast increased the strength in his hold, until François started feeling dizzy and faint, his feet barely touching the ground.

“Please forgive us!” Genevieve pleaded, tears streamed down her face. “We will do whatever you wish us to, so please, let him go!”

The beast seemed to think of the matter for a single moment and then let go of François, who fell to the ground with a loud “thunk”, coughing and gasping and cradling his neck. The beast turned to the crying girl. “Very well, I will accept your offer. In exchange for the stolen rose, you, its bearer, shall stay here.”

At that, François turned to Genevieve, whose eyes were wide in terror, her mouth slack. He jumped between her and the beast, feeling slightly ashamed to be gasping for air and holding onto his bruised throat.

“No, take me, the one who stole your rose, instead. I should be the one to pay for my transgression.”

The beast did not look happy at that proposal. But then again, it did not look like there was much that could make such a creature “happy”.

After what seemed like a whole minute, the beast nodded and growled: “So be it.”

At that, he raised his hand in a violent move towards the gates, which opened, and the horses took off, taking Genevieve and François’ father along with them. The last thing he saw before the gates closed once again was Genevieve’s terror stricken face looking back at him as she held onto her horse for dear life.

François turned to the beast, his hands closed into fits by his sides, his eyes burning in anger. “You did not even let me say goodbye, you bastard!” And at that, he lunged towards the beast.

With the element of surprise, he managed to get the beast to the ground, where they rolled and kicked and punched each other. But while the beast had had the disadvantage of being taken by surprise, François had a injured arm against him. Soon, he was pinned down to the floor by the beast and was wincing and clutching his arm.

“You did not even let me say goodbye,” he said again, but now his voice lacked its fire, and there was only pain.

The beast seemed to deflate at that, his anger leaving his demeanor. He got up and away, and gave time for François get to his feet.

“I made it so that while they have that rose they will not get lost, and the horses will take them to the nearest village unharmed,” he said, in manner of apology. But François did not feel like forgiving or thanking. He turned away and retreated towards the mansion without exchanging a single glance with the beast.

After a minute he heard the beast's careful steps behind him and he closed his eyes, trying to control his anger. His arm stung from their hurried scuffle. He wanted to yell and instead he said nothing.

By the time they’d gotten to the entrance, the beast had caught up with him and passed him by. He turned his beastly face towards François. There was a slight cut in his lip and his chin was bruised. François felt irrationally satisfied at that.

“Follow me. I will show you your room,” he said. His French sounded unusual, François realized, heavy with what he supposed was an English accent, posh and aristocratic in its own manner.

“Why can’t I stay in the same room as of yesterday?” he asked.

“Those rooms are made for guest, and you are not one of those anymore. You will be living here, and therefore you need your own room.”

François shuddered. _You will be living here_ , the beast said. The realization of everything he’d lost hit him in full force once again: his family, his friends, his freedom, he would not have any of those again.

Before the bandit attack, he and his family were traveling north to meet the fiancèe his father had arranged him. As much as he hated the idea of a loveless marriage, he couldn’t thank the beast from saving him from such fate, for he hated the idea of being trapped just as much. No matter how stunning the mansion could be, with its extensive gardens and breathtaking fountains and countless rooms, a gilded cage was still a cage.

“What should I call you?” the beast asked, still guiding François through the corridors.

“My name is François Bonnefoi.”

The beast nodded. He seemed to think for a while before saying:

“It has now dawned on me that I haven’t properly introduced myself, which must have seemed rude. Forgive me.”

“Well, you do realise that, after you nearly strangled me to death, your lack of manners is hardly surprising, nor is it something I am willing to forgive.

François half expected the beast to try to kill him once again, but held his ground, eyeing his host defiantly. The beast opened and closed his clawed hands and breathed deeply, as if trying to calm his nerves.

“I am Arthur Kirkland,” he said, as if he’d never been interrupted. “Lord of this state and this house. You may address me as Lord Kirkland or Sire.”

François wished to make a witty (and disrespectful) comeback, but held his tongue, and they kept quiet until they arrived to a closed door. Arthur—François refused to call him “Lord” or Sir anything—opened the door and said: “This will be your room. If you need anything, call the servants and they’ll cater to your every need.”

François tried to suppress his astonishment at the room. It was larger than the one he’d spent the previous night in, and finely decorated in dark blue. Across the door, there was a balcony that had view to the gardens and its roses.

“Supper will be served at Six, Monsieur Bonnefoi,” Arthur said, still standing by the door. His accent made “monsieur” sound something like “mursee” which was slightly amusing. “The servants will guide you to the dining room when it’s time. I will be expecting you, so do not delay. Until then, you are allowed to do what you wish with your time.”

Nothing was amusing anymore to François in that moment. He pursed his lips and fisted his hands, angered at the sheer arrogance in the beast’s voice. He wanted to reply, but Arthur had already left, closing the door behind him and leaving François alone with his angry thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things start to improve for both parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I’m sorry for taking soooo long to post this. In between school, personal stuff and sheer laziness, there wasn’t much time to write. Also, this is going to be a bit longer than the three chapters I had predicted, hope you don’t mind.  
> I’m very grateful to all of you who liked, favorited, sent kudos to this, and even more to those who commented, kept me motivated and corrected my mistakes! Love y’all!
> 
> (p.s.: I don’t know if this counts as a trigger, but in this chapter there’s a scene picturing briefly what I personally don’t really think is an eating disorder, but there might be people who’ll read it as such and it will be addressed again further in the story, so you have been warned.)

François stood by the balcony, watching as night fell slowly upon the gardens.

The servants had taken the liberty of lighting a candle for him, and then they stayed around, bugging him, nudging, pushing and pulling him halfheartedly toward the door, trying to do as their master instructed and guide François to the dining room.

François stood his ground, though, his jaw tightening in anger.

In a way, he felt like a young lad sulking. His immature behaviour wounded his pride, but he knew that if he were to acquiesce with Arthur, his pride would, without a doubt, hurt even more.

Somewhere in the mansion, a clock chimed, announcing six o’clock.

From the frantic way the servants nudged and pulled at him now, he needed not see their faces to notice their worry. He did not move, however, and hushed them, ordering them to stop their fussing. And they did stop, although hesitantly.

He felt bad for putting them in such position, but his pride spoke louder. And louder yet.

A few minutes passed before he heard the knocking on his door.

Perhaps  _ knocking  _ wasn’t the right word for it. Perhaps  _ banging the door with their fists _ would describe it better.

“What is it?”

“I thought I made myself clear on the matters of being late,” the beast said from the other side of the door.

“I’m not feeling hungry,” François said. “And, to be perfectly honest, I do not wish to see your face right now.”

The beast roared, and François could hear the sound of porcelain, glass and heavy furniture hitting the ground and shattering.

Then, silence.

A whole minute passed before Arthur spoke. “Very well,” he said, and he didn’t sound like he’d been throwing furniture around at all. “I won’t force you, but you will need to come out sooner or later, whether you like my face or not.”

François slumped against the wall beside the balcony as he heard Arthur’s footsteps retreating down the corridor and away. He slid down until he was sitting on the floor, and held his knees close.

He wanted to be back home with his family.

He wanted this all gone.

He wanted to cry, so the tears might take his hurt away. But the tears did not come, and so he screamed in anger instead.

As if inspired—possessed—by Arthur’s action, he lunged toward the nearest furniture—a pretty commode—and took hold of the decorative plate set on top of it with his good arm. It looked ancient, and precious, and for a second he wanted nothing more than to smash it to the ground, to shatter the most precious thing Arthur owned that he could put his hands on.

And then he stopped.

He breathed deeply and put the plate in its place with shaking hands. What was he doing? For a moment, he’d become a beast as well, like he was no better than Arthur.

He closed his hands in fists to stop their shaking and breathed deeply before falling heavily over his bed, closing his eyes, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, taking turns between avoiding and embracing his bitter thoughts.

The next morning was spent much in the same way, a blur of mixed thoughts and feelings. He longed to go outside, soak under the sunlight and paint the red roses in white canvas. But to do so was to prove the beast right, and he loathed the thought of it.

But by the end of the afternoon his pride began to waver as he began to feel impatient and hungry. The servants had brought him breakfast that morning, but neither luncheon nor dinner were anywhere to be seen.  _ Fair enough _ , he thought.

Ever so slowly, he opened the door and peered outside. There was no one around, and so he left the room.

He avoided tripping on a fallen table or stepping on the shards of a broken china vase, both victims of Arthur’s outburst.

As he walked, candles were lit to illuminate the darkened corridors, illuminating dozens of firmly shut doors as well. Curiosity had the best of François and tried to open the one next to him.

It was locked.

He did the same to several other doors at whim, no rhyme or reason to his choices. Some of the were locked like the first one, others gave way to dusty rooms, their furniture covered in white sheets.

Downstairs, he walked into a large hallway with two corridors on opposite sides, facing one another. And in between them there was a pair of double doors. They were beautiful, decorated in gold, with frescos of faeries and angels. But it was aged as well: there were layers of dust upon the gilded details, and the colors had long faded.

His hand moved, almost as if by itself, from the face of a faerie to a door knob, and he turned it slowly. The door opened with ease, and he pried inside. It was too dark to see, the thin light that came from the hallway didn’t help, but the room seemed big, and dusty. He opened the door a bit more, and could see now hints of heavy curtains around the round room. A  _ ballroom _ . And, from what he could see, a beautiful one at that.

Something told him he wasn’t to see this. He wanted to leave, but he wanted to stay as well. He wanted to come back the following morning and open the curtains, see the ballroom in all it’s glory.

François started as a hand settled on his shoulder, and he retreated in haste and closed the door he’d just opened.

He looked around, expecting the furious gaze of the beast, but found nothing.

His heart slowed in his ribcage as the servant’s hand came once again to his shoulder, and down to his arm, pulling him along the corridor on the left. He hadn’t noticed the faint light coming from the corridor, nor the open door that was its source.

The invisible servant pushed François towards the room and then, François presumed, left.

François walked warily into the room, a small and cozy library.

Arthur sat near the fireplace, reading a book. A pair of antique spectacles were perched on his cat-like nose.

For a moment François though the beast had sent the servant to call him, but then he realised Arthur hadn’t noticed his arrival. He continued absorbed in his book. François thought of leaving, but was wary of drawing Arthur’s attention while doing that.

Instead, François coughed, awkwardly.

Arthur seemed to startle at that, taking the spectacles off in a hurry. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but he didn’t sound angry or annoyed. He sounded genuinely curious.

“I was… I was taking a walk around the castle, and one of the servants brought me here. I thought you might have sent him.”

“Me? No, no, I did no such thing.” Arthur seemed confused. And just as awkward as François felt. “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?” He said after a moment, motioning towards a settee nearby. François obliged, in the need to fill their awkward silence.

He felt slightly guilty for his behaviour at the previous night, and he bet that Arthur felt the same. They’d both acted like spoiled children.

François decided not to think of it. Instead, he studied the room. The shelves were filled with thick volumes, which seemed old and well loved. On the table, there were three small trays and a tea set.

François eyed the trays with curiosity: they seemed to be carrying breakfast, luncheon and afternoon tea, respectively. And all of them were still filled with food.

The only thing that seemed to be empty was a china teapot and its cup, and there was also half  a glass of what looked like brandy.

François twisted his nose and looked at Arthur with what he realised—disgusted—that was concern. Was he not eating? How long had that been happening?

As if he’d realised he was being watched, Arthur raised his head. He’d put his spectacles back on, and behind them, his very green eyes met François’.

They were human eyes on a not-really-human face, green not like the sea, but like a forest: deep, wild.

Beautiful.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, his gaze skeptical.

François shook his head and averted his gaze. “I was wondering whether you’d allow me to join you for dinner tonight,” he said, doing his best to swallow his pride.

Arthur seemed surprised, if not baffled, at request, but pleased nonetheless.

“Certainly,” he answered, and looked at the clock above the fireplace—an old English model—before looking back at François. “There are still a few minutes left to Six, but I will see it to be served earlier.”

He got up, stuffing his spectacles in his pocket. “I will call you when everything is prepared,” he said and excused himself before leaving the room.

Arthur’s enthusiasm to have company during supper made François feel guiltier for his behaviour the previous night than he thought was possible. After God knew how long Arthur had stayed all alone in this dusty mansion, it was no wonder he’d jump at any opportunity of company. Even if company was a person he obviously disliked, like François.

Later, after things were properly arranged, Arthur led François to the dining room and they both sat at the table, Arthur at the place meant for the master of the house, and François next to him.

The atmosphere of a strained truce remained between them. The polite conversation was short lived, and killed with awkwardness as soon as it had taken its first breath. Soon the only sound to be heard was the chiming of silverware and porcelain plates.

Arthur seemed to be spending those moments of silence deep in thought, as if something troubled him so. At last, he spoke:

“I have come to realize that it is not... correct to keep you from your family and friends.”

François snorted. “Oh, is that so?” he answered with faux sweetness, but it didn’t carry as much venom as he expected it to. Arthur seemed to catch on François’ mocking tone, from the annoyed twitch of his beastly mouth and nose, but continued as if no one had interrupted him, as he did very often.

“My sense of honour and duty would not let me,” he said

François stifled a laugh, which was now more amused than annoyed, so as to not anger his host further. It was hard not to find the Englishman’s posh and conceited tone ridiculously funny, even when François wished nothing more than to be angry at him. And so he merely rolled his eyes, and was pointedly ignored ignored once again. Arthur continued:

“But it would not let me allow you to travel with such an arm injury such as that either. It would prevent you from properly guiding your horse.” François opened his mouth as if to counter-argue, but Arthur raised his hand slightly to stop him. “I have decided that as soon as it is healed and you are fit to ride once again, you can leave.”

To be perfectly honest, if it was up to François, he would take the makeshift cast off that same instant, the pain be damned. But then, the offer was not bad. And though he hated to admit it, he felt bad for Arthur, the unsightly beast.

François could not remember a time in his life when he had been all alone as Arthur must have been all those years. There had been always his friends, and pretty ladies and handsome men to bed, and parties and ballrooms filled with laughter. Even now, with the money, friends, and parties gone, he still had his cousin, who was as close as a sister to him, and even his difficult father.

He remembered the loneliness he had felt in the carriage during their traveling, at the thought of being left by his family to marry a woman he knew nothing of, did not love. And then again when he’d watched Genevieve leave behind the wrought iron gates. He’d seen the same loneliness in the beast’s eyes before.

He did not say any of that out loud, tough. Instead, he said:

“I want a paint studio.”

“What?” Arthur asked, seeming confused.

“For the period of my stay, I want a place where I can paint. And instruments for such, of course.”

From the way Arthur eyed him after his statement, he thought his shoulder injury would soon be the least of his worries. But the beast only huffed, annoyed. “You shall have a room to paint, and everything you will need for it, tomorrow. Is that all?”

“Yes,” François said, and Arthur only nodded.

François smiled down at the food on his plate. It was hard not to, at the sulking tone in Arthur’s voice. It was amusing how he managed to sound like a spoiled child when François was the one making childish demands.

And when he risked glancing at Arthur, he too seemed to be trying to conceal an amused grin.

Maybe they were both too immature for their own sake.

The rest of the main course progressed mostly in silence. Their brief conversations were now airy and casual, as opposed to the awkward tension from before.

When dessert was served, Arthur once again broke the silence. He seemed hesitant.

“I do not want to pry, but… I saw you earlier on the balcony, looking at the garden. You seem to like it and so I was thinking if you would not like to go there tomorrow along with me. To take a walk, maybe even paint there.”

François saw himself nodding. “Yes, of course,” he said.

And then again he could barely keep himself from smiling at Arthur’s clumsy attempts of establishing such a fragile, strained friendship—if one could call it that—between them, and his own eagerness to accept it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is lots of talking, despite most things going unsaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m ALIVE! Really, I am!  
> I have no idea what I’m doing anymore, and I’m not really confident in any of this, but HEY, NEW CHAPTER! I’m also really sorry for taking an unannounced… what? One month hiatus? Yeah, sorry about that.  
> And the worst of all is that I have no explanation at all to give you guys, I’ve just been lazy.  
> Really lazy and feeling really unmotivated. And on top of that I’ve been planning and plotting two other fics and an original story, so yeah, this project hasn’t been on the top of my mind lately.  
> Please, please comment! I swear that whenever someone comments my heart bursts with joy even if it’s just something like “nice story :)”. Comments saying what you guys liked or hated or that I wrote horribly wrong (or…something. Anything!) can make me really happy and motivated and inspired to get a new chapter (or a few paragraphs, lets be realistic) done, so… think about that. ;)  
> (I'd be also very happy if you guys reblogged this on tumblr (http://amateurdreammaker.tumblr.com/post/147823798378/) and spread the love!)

The following morning was spent on sketches of roses, while François studied their forms and colors, and the sunlight falling upon them.

And from time to time he raised his head from the page and watched Arthur work, trimming the rosebushes.

“I thought you had someone to do the gardening for you,” François said from his spot, sitting against the trunk of a tree.

Arthur got up from where he’d been kneeling, brushing the dirt he could from his hand and trousers. His clothes were much simpler than the ones he had worn for dinner the previous night, peasant clothes.

“I used to,” he said. “But after a while I began craving for something to distract myself. There is not much distraction to be had in the house, and I have always known my way around the flowers.”

François smiled as Arthur approached and leaned against the tree as well. “Is that so?”

Arthur chuckled. “Well, I enjoyed immensely to pester the gardener that worked here when I was a lad. He let me help whenever I could, and let me play around the trees and the bushes when I could not.” His smile was fond, a bit melancholy. “He used to say I was a natural.”

François smiled. It was the first time Arthur had mentioned anything of his mysterious past.

It did not take long for Arthur’s expression to become serious and rigid, though, as if he had said something he should not had.

“You know,” François started, hurrying to take Arthur’s mind off whatever was haunting him. “I once heard someone say that it is a wonder how good Englishmen are with their flowers, when they are so poor with people.” He laughed at the memory and how it applied itself perfectly to Arthur, who seemed less than amused for an instant, before laughing himself.

“Well, the flowers do not seem to mind my mood shifts as much as humans do.” Arthur shifted his head, and his previous melancholy smile turned into a crooked grin as their eyes met. “And,” he continued. “They are much more agreeable than many people out there. You, Monsieur Bonnefoi, are one of those specially disagreeable people.”

François could not help laughing at the teasing. “Am I?” he said, bringing his charcoal stained hand to his chest in an affected manner. Then he grinned. “I am fairly certain that none of my various past lovers has ever uttered such a thing.  _ Charming  _ seems to be more common when it comes to describing my person.”

_ Scoundrel  _ and  _ shameless  _ also seemed popular choices, he remembered, but felt no reason to mention them.

“I guess one does not exclude the other,” Arthur replied.

“So you do think I’m charming.”

“I never said that.”

They were grinning, staring at each other in the verge of laughter. And it was with a startle that François recognised the flirtatious tone in their conversation and chastised himself, returning his attention to his sketches.

He was no stranger to flirting, and sometimes it came to him as easily as breathing.

But he knew, from experience, that none of it was any good when it came to lonely people. 

Mending broken hearts was never an easy task, and it would come to a broken heart, no doubt. Because François’ heart was flimsy and his fancies were easily swayed. And Arthur’s eyes spoke of fondness and hunger for affection.

They spoke of a hopeless heart that could be easily ensnared by meaningless and playful flirtation.

And François could not bear to break another heart.

Arthur must have noticed the change in his demeanor, and eyed François with concern. “Everything all right?”

“Yes! Yes, I was just… Just thinking that it must be a lot of work to take care of this whole garden by yourself,” François said, returning to the more comfortable subject.

“It is a lot of work, but as I mentioned before, there is not much to be done at the house at all. And…” Arthur directed a fond smile to the rosebushes. “Well, I enjoy it.”

“You are doing a very good job,” François said and motioned the roses. “Those are beautiful.”

There was a brief, companionable silence before Arthur asked, “You like flowers, then?”

François smiled. “You could say that,” he said. “We used to have a huge garden in our old estate in Marche. There were a few roses, but my mother’s pride and joy were the lilies.

“I was very young when my mother got sick, ten years old. The doctors said it was a problem in her liver, and she became always tired and faint. I remember Grandmère used to bring us all outside to the garden—me, little Genevieve who had just been brought to our home, and even mother. Despite all the pain, mother always looked happy to be with us in that garden, when Grandmere would make us all sit in a bench surrounded by white lilies and tell us stories.”

His memories were so very clear of those precious afternoons. Genevieve, perched in Grandmere’s lap, listening to everything, her curious eyes wide. Grandmere’s voice, course but soothing. His mother’s gentle laughter.

She was so beautiful, his mother. With her golden curls and sky blue eyes and lips quick to smile. People said he looked just like her, and it filled him with irrational pride.

His eyes were fixed on the pages of his sketchbook, but he saw none of it. And he felt the sadness swelling up in his chest as it did every once in awhile. He kept talking so as to smother it:

“She didn’t last a year after the sickness truly got hold of her. By that time I was eleven, almost twelve. We still went to the garden, though. Still sat on that bench.

“Even after Grandmere passed away as well, we still…” He shook his head, not quite looking up at Arthur. “When I reached twenty-one, my father’s gambling debt had grown too big for us to pay. First went my university tuition, and my studies came to a halt. Then, when it wasn’t enough, we had to sell the estate.”

Then he laughed and it was a silly, hollow sound. “Our townhouse in Paris does not hold space for a single potted flower on the windowsill, let alone an entire garden.”

He looked up to find Arthur’s sad, lonely eyes on him. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said, and François realised he meant it.

“Don’t be. Everyone has a sad story. I do not even know why I told mine.” He truly didn’t. It seemed cruel to tell such things to a man who in a worse situation than his ever was. Then lower, almost to himself, he said: “Truth be told, I really did love those flowers.”

There was silence between them. Arthur seemed to be deep in thought.

François rested his head against the tree and let himself be pulled back by the memories of his families back then, and those of not so long ago. Both inevitably led him to the tale that had come to him mind few days ago, when he had first arrived in Arthur’s house.

François risked a glance at Arthur and wondered about his situation. Was he cursed for his actions, as the man of the tale? Was he born as such, as a punishment for his parent’s sins? François wanted to ask, but again, it would be such a cruel act.

Arthur looked up, and their eyes met. And once again François marveled at Arthur’s eyes.

Not for the first time he wondered about the joy it would be to translate their colour, their depth, the hidden mirth and hidden sadness, onto a white canvas.

Arthur, on the other hand, seemed startled to have been pushed out of his reverie. He smiled apologetically and turned to leave. “I apologize, I’m afraid I must get back to work.”

“Wait.” Without truly meaning to, François’ good arm shot forward and his hand caught Arthur’s.

Arthur’s bushy eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What is it?”

“I wanted to ask…” François started, and then stopped short. There were so many thoughts in his head in that moment, so many questions that, he realized, he did not know which he truly wanted the answers to.

The question about the supposed curse was on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself. What came out, instead, was not less wrong. “I was wondering whether you’d let me paint you?”

It was all it took for Arthur’s expression to close just like a cloudy day. “Of course not,” he said, pulling away from François’ grasp before he excused himself and disappeared into the garden.

Soon François’ interest in sketching was lost and then he moved to a place where he could lay in the grass and soak in the sunlight.

He felt a peculiar melancholy seeping through his skin along with the sun. And briefly wondered whether his other questions would elicit such a cold reaction from Arthur as well.

When his hunger became too great to bear and he heard the faint chiming of the clock inside the house, he got up, gathered his drawing instruments and went inside.

He passed through the dining room and, as Arthur hadn’t arrived yet, he decided he had enough time to get changed before luncheon.

When he returned, Arthur was still nowhere to be seen, even though the table was set for two.

He ate slowly, but all courses came and went without a sign of Arthur, and he gave up waiting by the time he finished dessert.

When he left the dining room he was almost hit by an invisible servant and the tray of luncheon they were carrying, along with a tea set.

Those were, without a doubt, meant for Arthur. François realised that it must not be uncommon for Arthur to eat in his study or, from what he saw the previous evening, to leave the food untouched.

That alone served to increase his exasperation towards Arthur for not having lunch along with him, which was irrational, he knew it. It was not like they had made any agreements to eat together.

Still, he hesitated for a single moment before relieving the servant from the heavy tray and accompanying them to the cozy study.

Having got there, he rapped the open door with his knuckles. “Hello?”

Arthur’s head snapped up from the book he was reading. “Oh, please come in.”

The invisible servant did not share François care to knock before entering, and had put the tea set onto the table long before Arthur replied. François followed suit, and put his tray on the table as well. Arthur took the sight of it all with wide eyes.

“Have I missed luncheon?”

“Yes, but it is all right,” François said, doing his best to hide his irrational hurt. He took a seat and motioned the trays. “You should eat.”

“I want to finish this first,” Arthur said, raising his book once again and pointing with it to a set of notes on his desk. “I will eat later.”

François’ mouth pinched in distaste. “Just like you did yesterday?”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me just fine. You think I did not notice?” François pointed to the table. “You had not eaten a thing all day until dinner yesterday. I did not see you at breakfast this morning and now you plan to skip luncheon? What could be so important to make you overlook your health as it is?”

Without thinking, he reached out and took the book from Arthur’s hands. He could barely glimpse the English title before Arthur took it back.

If before Arthur’s expression was confusing, it was now clear as day, and he was furious.

“And how, pray tell, is that any of your business?”

It wasn’t, and François knew that. He wanted to slap himself for acting like a concerned, upset wife. And yet.

And yet he kept remembering his mother skipping meals, saying she was not hungry or was busy, getting thinner by the day. It was the early signs of her sickness and sometimes he wondered if they could have saved her had they noticed it sooner.

François could not bear to think of that any longer.

“You are right,” he said at last, getting up from his chair. “I had no business prying into your personal matters. I apologize.”

Everything hurt for some reason as he turned around—his head, his chest, his pride. His pride was specially wounded.

François was not familiar with apologizing. He was usually either right or too proud to admit otherwise.

He did not regret worrying, but he did feel sorry for overstepping Arthur’s boundaries. Even if those boundaries were a far too extensive for François to understand. Even if Arthur’s words stung far more than they should.

He stopped short when Arthur’s clawed hand circled his wrist. Surprisingly, François was not afraid, neither did he flinch at the touch.

“No, please. Stay,” Arthur said. “I owe you an apology as well. I was rude when I should not have been.”

It was there to be seen in the way Arthur wouldn’t quite meet François’ eyes and in his low voice—he was as used to apologizing, pleading, as François was. And yet, they had both done it.

François let himself sit down again and picked up a book from a small table beside his armchair.

And Arthur, before a moment of hesitation, took the luncheon tray to his desk to eat. It seemed to take all his willpower to do so and therefore give in to François.

There was silence until François decided to try again: “Why won’t you let me paint you?”

He knew it was sensible matter, but it seemed like everything he wanted to say was a sensible matter, as if he was looking for a way to argue with Arthur over every little thing.

Instead of lashing out, though, Arthur merely sighed and touched his beastly horns lightly. “Have you gotten tired of painting flowers already?”

François laughed at the unexpected response, surprised. “Well, I do like to have various painting subjects.”

He let go of the matter, though. Something in Arthur’s reaction unsettled him, and he could not fathom why.

It was only later, after the afternoon and evening had been spent on books and meaningless conversations, after François was already in bed, that he realised why.

Arthur’s sheer uneasiness reminded him of the boy he used to see in the mirror a long time ago.

A boy with gangling, awkward body, blond curls and the rosy lips and cheeks of a girl. That same feminine face he despised was a mocking reminder of the mother he had just lost, and it made him hate himself more.

And then more, as he found that the boys working the stables were just as appealing to him as any girl.

With time, he learned to love the boy in the mirror, the one he had once hated so much. But he could never forget the boy’s expression, and it was the same as Arthur’s had been that afternoon.

It was a face of full of insecurity, of concealed self-hatred.

That should have stopped François from pushing further. But he did not want Arthur to feel as the boy François had once been felt, because no one should.

Maybe Arthur needed to see himself the way François saw him.

And then François fell asleep to a new objective in mind.


	4. Hiatus Notice (please read)

I know: I disappear for three whole months and when i do come back is to announce that I'll be disappearing for two other months. _How dare I?!_ But wait! I don't bring only bad news: there are good (...and so-so) news too!

The bad news is, as stated before, that ReFL is entering an official hiatus. There are many reasons for it and for my previous disappearance, the main reason being that this month I'm taking several College entrance exams, starting tomorrow, and so I've been studying (and stressing) my ass off lately. SO! As you may imagine my writing time has been severely shortened.

The so-so news is that... Well, it's partly the other reason for my disappearance. The thing is, this project was started on a whim and so I had zero planning for it - which is BAD for controlling, neurotic people like moi. I like plotting stuff before writing and the best example I have is that I've been planning my Pirate!AU fic for more than a year now. I actually BOUGHT a book for historical research, that's how controlling I am. That being so, my story began taking a shape that I dislike and have no way of fixing. I started writing the 4th chapter but hated every word I wrote, and then I read the previous chapters and couldn't like them as I did before. For a while I was really disappointed in the project and in myself. I couldn't bring myself to write it anymore.

I know that really didn't sound motivating, but wait for it! La Rose et La Fleur de Lys is NOT a dead project!

This past few days I found so much inspiration for it that my love has been rekindled to what it was before, but I realized I want to plan things first _and then_ write. What I mean is, ReFL is being rebooted. And because of that (and my studies) I need some time to get things right.

"WHAT?! You're rewriting the WHOLE THING?!" Why, yes.

BUT DO NOT FEAR! The essence of the story will remain the same, as will most of its plot-line so far. I have no idea how you readers are going to react to this, if you're going to love, or hate this, and I'm really sorry if you hate it. :(

Okay, so. Where are the good news then? WELL, since you are so patient with me, I'm planning some stuff that are not even close to how amazing you are to me, but still something to compensate you guys for the wait:

  1. I'm planning a pretty cover for the fic and I'll be sharing it with you :)
  2. I also plan to share my Pinterest Storyboard for the curious
  3. AND my new and ever growing inspiration playlist



I'll be doing that over the course of November, so.. it's at least something to wait for. ::nervous laughter::

You're allowed to scream angrily with me as much as you want in the comments now :')


	5. Announcement (Please read)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there anyone still reading this? o.o Well, if there is, I hate to be the bearer of bad news but...

Hello there! After almost two years, I bring my lying, cowardly butt here to apologise to you for my disappearance and for promising stuff that I couldn't well keep.  
I promised to reboot this story. I might do that one day, but it's probably not going to happen in a while. And honestly, I'll be lucky if anyone even reads this after all this time and gives a shit. (I know I wouldn't.)  
To those of you still around, I'm still into Hetalia, and I'm still writing fanfiction. But I'd like not to repeat the same mistake twice: I'm not posting anything until at least its first draft is completed.  
I'm currently working on the first chapters of my four-year-old (I kid you not) baby: my Pirate!AU fanfiction. So, if any of you guys like pirates, gritty, bloody stuff, anti-heroes, FrUk and/or SpaMano, etc, and would like to supervise me as a beta-reader, reading stuff beforehand and make sure I actually get stuff done, just send me a comment.  
Sorry again for my shitty behaviour and for spending so much time hiding from my responsibilities to you. Kisses, love you all.


End file.
